The governess
by SAINTIXE56
Summary: Initially a stand alone. Every decent house hold should have one. Set for most part in 1855. Hal is going through a new cycle. By the look of it, killing your host is a social faux pas. Reviews welcomed. Being human belongs to the BBC & T Whithouse.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

An old book

1990

The gentle hands flick through the pages of the battered book…

…

My name is uninteresting. Who am I, where was I born or where are my parent from … who cares. Uninteresting. I am not a maker, a doer. I am just me, plain little me. If you want to give me a name … call me Jane Smith … or Jane Eyre. As the governess. As the character.

I once was a governess. And yes, dear reader, I met my Mr Rochester. Thus my story has a happy ending. In a way, a highly unethical way.

I took care of my charge. I had to. Poor angel. Left adrift in a world of strangers. I took pity on him. I could have run away. Dereliction of duty. Yes, it has a name. I could have. I did not. Who would have helped, cared? Who would have believed him? In those days, his people were already very far from being popular. They may be rich, they certainly are mighty. What is certain is that they are rightly feared. He fears them; he has all the reasons to fear them because he is as ruthless as them. He says he does not want to be like them… He says.

I know better, I am a teacher, a governess. I am trained to detect lies.

I really do not know why I am writing this. I stopped this diary a long time ago. In those days, all the young ladies had a diary. Where I was employed, we used to call it in French: un journal personnel. Le journal d'une ame. A soul's diary; a soul's journey.

In those days of private education, young ladies of means did not go to private boarding schools. No, the teacher was allowed to set a foot in their own household. Though naturally not on an equal footing.

We were better than the cook but less than the personal valet and her ladyship's private chambermaid. We could avoid eating in the servants' hall but had to resign ourselves to be served lunch with our young pupils. In the nursery or in the classroom. Some grand days, we were allowed a peak to the library!

Not for us the grand dining room. Not ballroom, no salon. Whether grand or humble parlour. The governess was only to be seen, but not heard… like her charges.

This is ironical because one momentum day I was heard but could not be seen. And all changed.

Was not to be seen or heard was my aim. I totally missed the point. I ridiculously failed and it saved my life and got me this permanent post. This post for the past 35 years or so. My employer is very attached to my services. He does not leave our modest house without me to watch over him

…

Diary, diaries … tell me my past. One previous entry of the diary reads as follows.

May 11th 1855: Dear Diary,

I promise to write to Aunt Mathilda and my dear Uncle Septimus. Tomorrow. After church. My last remaining family. I owe them that.

After dear Papa's affairs had fallen in such disastrous states that dear Papa had no choice but do the honourable thing, my dear Aunt very kindly opened her door, her house and her heart to the double orphan.

I am still at a loss as to understand how dear Papa's suicide could have helped mending his situation or give money back to his customers but so it is. The bank closed, the banker closed his account. The Reverend Deacon Septimus Brocklehurst is totally unlike Mrs Charlotte Bronte's fictional character. Uncle Sept is a good man and his wife Aunt Mattie is the best of aunts. I must write to them about this place.

This is my first post. I shall be given 75 pounds every trimester. Seventy five pounds! As I am just 22, I am going to be a very rich young lady.

I must keep my head down. As not to provoke any man above my condition. Gentlemen do not marry their employee, Miss Bronte. They bed them and leave them adrift. The poor girl is to count herself lucky if she is not shamed by an enlarging belly.

I know I should not write this or use that word…. Nobody is going to read you. I know some employers do. Which is why I have one ready to peruse, full of spiritual devotion. Ready for nosy employers. It would make Uncle Sept if he knew. As he knows better, he would probably inform My Lady, this is not my real book.

You, my real honest book. My friend and nobody will ever read you but me. Where was I? Oh, Yes…

I do not know – God bless me- what a gentleman does with a lady when they lay side by side in a bed. But I know how it ends. Disgrace. I mean she is disgraced and he carries on with his life, ready to disgrace another virtuous maid. I am virtuous … and rich. Rich very soon. Less than two months.

My first salary will be divided in four parts … one part for my dear guardians, one part in case in ill health, one part to be saved if horror, I was to lose this lucrative post and one part for daily expenses.

I am so happy it feels giddy…

My charges are two ladies.

A rather unpleasant young lady of fourteen. Next year, she will need me less. In theory. In practice, her parents count on me to help her understand the basics of the management of a household: addition and subtraction. Isabella does not seem to understand that money spent does not grow on trees. Lord This or the Right Honourable That are but one and just the same. Men are me; they have the upper hand, our husband is our master. We are given a weekly allowance for the household's expenses; if we overspend said pin money by a penny, our earthly master, our husband will show his displeasure.

Some husbands are known to whip their wives. Known to humiliate said wives in front of us, the servants. Poor Isabella. She is pretty; the type of face which ages considerably after one or two 'interesting situations'. Once her beauty gone, she will not have much to help her to keep Lord This or Mister That near her side.

Sophia is nicer, possibly because she is younger. I will manage even if they carry on commenting rather loudly about my brown silk which 'has seen better days'. Insufferable pampered minxes. But they can be kind. Yes kind. Isabella loves music and she has sincerely thanked me yesterday after listening to Schubert. As for Sophia who still needs to sleep with her doll... My charges can be kind and my lot could be worse.

Sir Marmaduke and Lady H are, how to … they are snobs. Haughty snobs. I am convinced they would look down on our dear Queen. The manor is large. But not 'that' large. Sir M is just a younger son. He is not the viscount. They live in the Dower house. Really to boast of having more than 20 servants in this rather small …house is plain showing off and bad taste. Could it be possible that they would compete with the W.?

Viscount W. and Lady W. are more … simple. More… subtle. Gentler. Life is strange. My employers who live in that smallish house are way wealthier than the people living in the real grand house. Lady H was quite an heiress. It is said she wanted to become a viscountess. She cannot complain. Sir Marmaduke is a baronet. Created by our late good king, Sailor William. Now this was a very naughty king. And I really should not write more about our dear Queen's late uncle.

It is strange. I heard the knocker as I went to my room and the house is eerily silent. I could have sworn I just heard like a cry of terror. I must leave you and see what Sophia has done. I am sure she has found a mouse. Or a bat…

…

After the last bubble of life had been extracted, spilt; he got bored. Again. Bored and sated. It happened just like that. It always happened like that. Without warning.

He was blood drunk, angry at the world. Angrier at himself. Disgusted with the creature he was. By the rivers of blood which followed him. He hated the world; because the world tolerated him. If Justice meant something, surely by now the world would have rejected him. Would have vomited him back to where he belonged: Hell.

The calm passing of the days has carried on and the blood fest has not stopped. It never stops. Would it ever stop?

The maid's body fell back on the chair, her neck half gone, chewed up to the cervical vertebrae.

Downstairs, faintly coming from the cellar, he could hear good old Fergus having fun with… with Annabella. Anna, no… Not Anna… Sophia. Yes Sophia. The noble lady of the manor had knelt, knelt to begging him to take her instead of her child, which he did obligingly.

He would not drink the child but Fergus would. Fergus had no niceties about him. Whom did he kill first? A young girl. A girl older than the one he had agreed on. The daughter, the eldest daughter. She was practising the piano. Well, she would be - now - unable to murder anymore Wolfgang. Silence after Mozart is still signed Mozart. Silence after Isabella was … a blessing. The girl had no musical ear; surely her parents could, should have prevented the cacophony. Sir Marmaduke, the portly human who was so welcoming to Colonel Henry Yorke was not going to repeat the mistake of inviting him in.

"Pray do come in, Colonel. My hall is yours"

Initially, Yorke had not planned the assault. He blamed the horse, the loosened iron… After listening to Miss H.'s musical holocaust, he felt like calling the wrath of God was totally justified.

What if … she had played right? Would he have killed her? Yes after doing the dishonourable thing.

Lately, he was spiralling out of control. Giving free rein to his baser instincts. She was still theoretically a child. He has known quite intimately another fourteen year-old in another cycle.

It was better. Better this way. Annabella or Sophia (strange Britain where about each aristocratic family felt compelled to bestow over and over again the very same names to its members) was going to die. Slowly. Sadly. Fergus liked to drink the blood dripping from the knife. Drop, drop… He rejoiced in the fear, the terror. For him, he did not rejoice in the pain. No, all he cared about was the blood; more and more blood. Lovely velvety fluid. Fluid of life for him. Humans were there just to be … harvested.

Sophia was dead, her parents were dead. And the last maid was dead…

Fergus must have caught the last human standing in the House. Fergus knew his duty. Clear the house from any trace of humanity. Live humanity .

He gave a long look at the long corridor. He could hear not heartbeat. Good. It would not do to leave any human alive able to give a description. Victoria's Scotland Yard Police Force might be better than the Georgian Bow Street Runners. Things were improving. Slowly, very slowly. Slowly enough to miss the obvious and hang the innocent. Humans were less prone to hang for minor offences. Australia had a lot of saved lives to prove it. Stupid humans. All too prone to blame those too weak to defend themselves.

Still, a survivor could not be allowed. He thought he heard some noise in one of the rooms. Still no heart-beat. Humans could never stop their tell-tale heart. He opened the door. It was as he thought. No human. A room with an open window. A room for… a female if he was to take on account the crumpled crinoline with a carelessly thrown reddish skirt on the faded carpet. Just an open window and…

And a pulse. A woman with a pulse.

He looked outside the window and… yes here she was. Too far from his reach. Way too far. Holding to the grapevine. Standing on the wisteria top branches.

In her long unmentionables. With nice ankles. Too far from his reach. Almost out of her mind. Almost ready to fall from the tree branch which was giving her some foothold. If he followed her, it would break. Out of reach.

"_**Come here, I am not going to… I am going to kill you. Sorry, One should never lie to a lady"**_

"_**I am not a lady"**_

"_**I would not have taken Lady H to tolerate her husband's paramour in her house"**_

The owner of the neat pair of ankles… and legs (he could not comment on the knees) looked at him angrily.

"_**You may kill me; you will not insult my good name… nor my employer's reputation"**_

"_**A lady then. You know, in my days… young ladies were not allowed to climb on trees, nor show their underwear to any man. But their wedded husband. I blame Miss Austen for this."**_

"_**Are you somehow drunk?"**_

Yes, he was. Blood drunk. Alcohol… gave him headaches. Blood … blood made him drunk. Drunk and brazen. He … he was flirting with a girl who was standing half naked in a tree because otherwise he would have killed her and it was … fun. How long … when was it that he has actually flirted with a lady? Madrid? Yes, Spain and a lady who was wooed with tulips…

He had wooed; he had loved the lady. And he had been loved… and… he had lost her. He could have killed her but he did not. He was waiting for her in her father's house … with her father. Talking in earnest about a dowry … when they had heard the commotion. He had known the outcome before the duena, the panting duena covered in blood could speak. Could explain. He had seen the blood; explanations were superfluous.

Outside church, a child had been begging. The maid, her charge, Dona Ximena had wanted … as never in Madrid lived a most generous lady… Dona Ximena wanted to give some piastras to the child beggar. What happened was a mystery. She bent to give the money, she shook then fell; a red rose at her neck. The flower got larger and larger … and it was blood. The beggar left holding the opened purse, running and giggling. Dona Ximena's purse and it was all. The duena had called for help. The child was nowhere to be found but her charge. The heir to her master the most noble Don Carlos Grande De Espana, the betrothed of the Ingles senor was no more.

After that… after that… He did not remember much. Except the pain, the hurt and the silence. He was … he had been so angry, so hurt. The grief was unbearable. Ximena was innocent; yet she had been slaughtered. A sacrificial lamb.

He knew the child. Hettie. Hettie would pay. It would take him one hundred years, one thousand years. This account would be settled. What mattered was what had stopped to matter. Ximena must have crossed her door by now. He was alone. All alone with grief for only companion.

It must have been planned. He knew who he could thank for.

If he had been with her… As a ghost, his fiancée would still have been around. He felt sure she would not have left him alone. She would have stand by him. If he had been with her… Killed in front of a church. The church he could walk in as his powers were getting stronger over the centuries. The church Ximena was to become his beaming bride. If he had been with her…

A concerted attack with a message for him. Thou shalt have no other God but me. Thou shalt not escape me. He was owned, body and soul. He had tried to break free and Ximena had paid the price of this miserable show of independence. After that…

Somehow he must have left Spain. He somewhat remembered staying in France in … in … when was it? Yes the Revolution. Vampires liked blood baths, thrived on blood. It sure was bloody. French, Spanish; who cared? Blood tasted the same. Then.

Then? South America under the cover of El Libertador and? … And? Turkey, war. Balaclava; Sevastopol. Back to Britain when humans started bartering for Peace.

Britain … and this nonsensical child in her underwear for all men to see her ankles and her knees. Nice knees.

"_**When are we leaving my lord? … A human! Shall I get her?"**_

"_**Go to London. Wait for me. Just say you are to … to be entertained. You are my … Aide de Camp. You should be offered shelter with some tolerable comfort"**_

"_**Yes, my lord"**_

Fergus left the room. Nobody knew or wanted to know where the mood would take Lord Harry when he was drunk.

He would … wash. Eat, Take some money and go to London. Or go to London now… ride like Hell and all its Devils were in hot pursuit. The horse had lost its iron. As the stable lads could not, and would never again… The vampire henchman hesitated. Should he? Wisely, he refrained. His face could be cleaned down by the stables. As for the horse, he would get to London in easy stages. Or wash off the blood in the first river. Pretend to be nice and leave Henry Yorke to finish this brilliant day by nipping into this very nice morsel. Lucky Lord Harry. Fergus was not to meet Lord Harry till 1919 in Shanghai.

…

The monster had disappeared to re-appear moments later holding the cumbersome crinoline. And shoving it in her direction. In not so many words, if and as she was a lady … she was supposed to dress back. She was told in stringent terms she was to put on her crinoline and her red dress, or skirt… or whatever females called this thing.

The monster was drunk … and wicked. And sinful. How could she dress in a tree? She had removed the dress and the large whale boned petticoat to climb over the window. How had she come to think that she could save her life by hanging forlornly to a vine some three or four floors above the garden would remain a mystery?

Upon hearing the commotion, she had quickly run to the staircase and seen Sir Marmaduke bleeding to death with a young dashing… ghoul? A man ghoul? At his neck, while outside her vision field, the rest of Burton the valet… Burton's body was shaking and something was… drinking? From it!

The monsters, the killers… were laughing. Seized with a terror which knew no bound, the young governess had let drop skirt and petticoat, climb out and gingerly walk deep, away to the safety of the wisteria and the grapevine and a few decorative Tudor external walls decorations. Her stays had never seen such commotion!

And now … now, the monster wanted her to dress. Because she was immodest!

"_**I CANNOT DRESS ON THIS BRANCH. I will not. It is a trick. You will not trick me. By the powers given to me, by the Church… err... I beseech you err I mean I command you…"**_

"_**Exorcism does not work. One cannot be well over three hundred years and not learn a trick or two. Put that dress or I shall put it myself"**_

The worst part was that he looked so serious. He was … it was like he was really offended by her unmaidenly actions. In truth, to be saved this way… If ever she was to be saved. She could see the stern police inspectors. To have to answer to questions by a pitiful 'I was saved because I showed him my legs and my … long drawers, in my … tights. And he commented on my garters… The shame.

…

It has lasted too long. He climbed out the window with the dress under his arm after letting the crinoline fall further down. The plan was to let the large underdress reach the grass; the wisteria had other plans. At mid height of the wall, the lace got entangled and stuck the garment like an immodest flag floating to the wind.

He had to let the dress or the skirt or … what was the fashion for ladies fall a bit further down. Lovely. Tomorrow, the police would wonder as why a lady's dress and the rest were hanging on a grapevine while the household was getting butchered… Creepy murderers. Killers with a perversion for ladies petticoats.

A foot here, a branch there. Another foot here and… and his prey. His unwilling prey was his and his right hand grasped her terrified left hand … when his and her foothold broke. They were falling head first to the ground when both hands grasped at the first available support branch. Which was not a branch but the crinoline? The cotton fabric held and ripped off. Sending the couple further down. To another branch or a red velvety dress. Which also ripped and sent them further down? To the wisteria, the real wisteria and to the lawn. They were alive and the prey was still his.

…

She was alive. No broken neck. The crinoline and its whalebones had accomplished a miracle. The crinoline would never save her life again as it stood near at her back like a pair of dirty white wings

She was alive, bruised, dishevelled in her unmentionables. Legs encased in some female long legged pantaloons. In a personable young man's arms. Who was a monster!

The monster looked at her. His eyes were dark.

"_**I DO NOT WANT TO BECOME A VAMPIRE. Promise me to kill me. I do not want to become… like you"**_

"_**I could… I can make you eternal. You could become my … dark bride?"**_

"_**I want to die. I mean I want to live. To live in God's eternal life. I do not want to be a vampire. I am not afraid of Death even if … if your way to… inflict it is painful"**_

From the outside, it seemed that a young couple had decided to elope at the time My Lady H was being served tea. The man's arms were still around the young lady's waist and not ready to leave.

A human… uninterested by Eternal Life. A novelty! And he was sated. He did not want to drink, to kill. He had a headache, a bloody hangover because God was rewarding him with His usual sick sense of humour. A human ready to risk death; happy to court Death rather becoming Immortal. A nice pair of ankles with a nice waist and a …bleeding cheek. He felt his eyes getting dark but obliged them to appear human again.

Inside the human chest, the pulse was beating now serene. As if Death was not feared. As if it was just some inconvenience like too much sugar in tea. So… she did not want to be like him. She preferred to be …inferior.

She was not inferior. She simply wanted, accepted to move on… if it had to come to this. In Heaven, she would be reunited with Papa, her Mother and the little brother who never lived. Later she would welcome Aunt Mattie and Uncle Septimus. Possibly she would meet Isabella and Sophia. In Heaven, she was confident dear Isabella would learn to play the piano.

She was a child; she knew nothing about life. About the big bad wolves who lusted after innocent maidens. Life would make her cry; wish she had accepted his offer. God was a bit of a bastard who enjoyed tricking its creatures. Torturing his creatures by rubbing where it hurted. Showing them prizes never to be obtained. Love never to be given. Never to be shared. Life was only grief.

The young lady raised her hand to touch a very old scar from a long forgotten battle. He was drunk, his lips and cheeks were covered in blood. He had killed her employer and probably all the household. He was sad, so sad. Tired, bewildered. Lost. Maybe she could… help him. Not save him. Only him could save himself but help him, she could,

He was not going to kill. Not now, not yet. Not again. All he wanted was to lose his self into the gentle eyes, the rosy cheeks, and the kind smile of an otherwise rather simple Miss.

Fergus had left the gates open. The gates were allowing life to flow in. His fingers found her chin, caressed the bruised cheek. He raised the chin to meet …

…

1890

Thirty five years, I cannot believe it has been almost forty years. The happiest years of my life.

Since that fateful day, I have seldom written my thoughts. I am too afraid of the consequences if someone was to read this book.

Hal who has forbidden me to use his proper title has gone outside for a meeting with… his family. They… his people are angry at him. He is of some sort of royal blood. His … sire, his father for us mortals wants his heir back in the fold. My charge says nothing would induce him to return but me leaving him.

I had to promise I am never to cross some sort of door. I said yes; the look he shot back means he was not duped. If and when the time comes, I am not afraid. I will wait for him. Death is not the end. Why should I stay? If and when the Lord calls me, I shall be ready and will obey to His calling.

Life is good; life has been good. We left the Dower House in a hurry. I put on my lady's smart amazon riding outfit while he was ransacking all the drawers looking for money. Once he decided to join humanity ranks, he felt he could not profit from years of endless crimes. I have made my duty to help him save himself. He is in a way the child I never had. My eternally young charge.

Mr and Mrs Smith were as poor as the proverbial church mice. In a way though Hal has always contrived to provide some elegance in our life.

"_**A lady will not be seen in the summer without a sunshade umbrella. In French lace. A lady always travels first class. The price does not object. A gentleman never forgets to show his lady the high regard he holds her in by offering her as often as needs be some gentle trinket. Jane, this is just a simple necklace. The pearls are very small".**_

Mr and Mrs Hal Smith have been very happy. Thank you. We hid in a village looking for a gardener and a schoolmistress. I have never written to Aunt Mattie. Simply every year out of the blue, they would receive thirty gold guineas. Coming from Sir Marmaduke's safe.

Thirty gold coins like the ones given to Judah who betrayed our Lord. I have betrayed my people, my employer, his family and all the servants. I see their ghosts at night. I wake up and shriek. Hal holds me like I was some sort of ship mast, holding in the tempest. And I … I stay for his sake.

We were newlyweds, then brother and older sister. Now we are mother and son. I can see the fear growing in his eyes. He mutters words like cycle. Cycles? He begs me to accept… to be recruited. I do not fear Death, I do not need to. He fears it for me.

Lady H household accounts, her servants salaries, Sir Marmaduke's safe … all is gone now. We have sparse habits. We have to. Still, we are poor and we cannot get in debt. I know he is going to try and ask from his people some… some blood money. I cannot accept. It is my turn to do something for us. Because come to think of it. I have done nothing. But let my skirt and petticoat down. And my dear love has saved me. We have lived forever after as happy as the Queen and her dear Albert. And I have been spoilt, utterly spoilt.

"_**You have helped me, saved me. You have made me human. The least I can do is to let you enjoy the life of the lady you are. You are not going to work. A woman, my woman working?"**_

I must not allow him to be beholden to his people. I can still work. I am almost sixty years old. Fifty seven says the birth certificate. Thus I do not look old. Probably having no children has helped in keeping a slim waist and a 'neat' pair of ankles!

Once a governess, always a governess. I have found this offer of a position in the Times.

Recently bereaved gentleman with a young daughter looks for a respectable governess with experience. Young ladies need not apply. Serious offer. Large house in the Cotswolds. If the lady is married, her husband could easily find work on the estate. Ideal.

Hal does not know. I have given our address to the poor grieving widower. I have to meet him this afternoon while Hal is clutching at straws. His damsel in distress is going to save him as usual.

There is always hope in life. There is always a decent way out. I am happy and I have very good reasons to be hopeful. Hal will find work. And… and we shall find some solution as to explain his never aging. He can be saved. He will be saved. I do more than hope. I know. There is hope for him.

I hear the knocker. It must be him. Poor Mister Herrick.

…

1955

Life is full of sadistic ironies. Like me in Berlin in 1945. Doing surely God's work by killing the occasional SS. Like today going to Bristol because I am so bored with Life, with blood, with myself I am hanging at anything to give some semblance of existence to my life. My death.

A dog fight. Again. Cutler who has improved like old Port tells me the man in charge has a sick sense of humour that should get me entertained and he does not cheat. He does not cheat a lot. Barry, Cardiff, London. I really don't care. Life is just a blur, just the flick of an eyelid about to close on a glazed eye.

Dog fight. I am getting bored. I was getting bored.

Bristol. I knew the name. I knew who he was. I knew the day would come where Retribution would come. Snow … Snow, dear, highly revered Mister Snow. Old geezer Snow had told me who I had to thank for.

I knew who he was. I bet he had never seen me. Why should he? He was just a newly made vampire. Doing what he was told. Do this, kill that. Kill the human. Make sure the ghost does not stay. Burn the house down. Leave no memento. Leave no branch as to allow any survival. Erase all memory. Leave just a blank slate. Slaves need no past. They are just here to obey their masters.

…

1890

_**As for hoping you are going to live with a ghost…. Hettie and her recruit will make sure the spirit cross her door. It is for your own good, you understand.**_

_**I will not. I will not allow my heir to live like… like a Bohemian. With a human! Why not with a dog while you are at it!**_

_**From what I have heard, some children of Darwin' faith in an ever happy afterlife is quite touching; that is if you believe in fairy tales**__._

_**You will rule London for me… or Wales like Fat Bertie? You are still too young for Britain. But the day will come.**_

_**Welcome back, my dear prodigal son. **_

_**The future is yours as the past is just ashes.**_

_**Yes, drink, drink some more. It numbs the pain, it negates the void. Drink and welcome back to the fold.**_

_**A governess, really. Hal, a governess? It was just an anonymous lady. With such an unremarkable name. **_

….

1955

Herrick is strutting like a circus compere. I have lost… a lot. And I do not mean money. He opens the door wide as he expects me, an Old One to pay my betting losses. His guys have left us alone. Two bosses to discuss an uneventful sporting event. I smile. I am trying to find a new way to wipe out the man's silly grin. I want his death to be … spectacular!

It will settle a few accounts, teach a salutary fear to the young interlopers who think they can rule our world. My world. Henry Yorke Ltd. Lord Harry's world.

I shall give Bristol to Cutler. The kid is really improving. Making me proud.

Henry Yorke always pays his debts. Even if it takes him a century. He'll find you.

Herrick offers some drink. 'Some drink'. Modern glasses. Blood on … ice? Served in a whisky tumbler! I smile. Such bad taste must be rewarded. I must have looked sarcastic; the imbecile feels he needs to pour the blood, his back turned. Does he lick the last drop of blood from the bottle neck? I would not be surprised. For all his talk about class, the man has no elegance.

I leap. I hold the stake and I… I am going to tell him why. I have waited so long. I can wait a few more seconds. This is not for me, this… Funny, isn't it? Weird, certainly.

"_**William Herrick, I kill you … I am killing you because you … once you are dead, then I… I shall be able to forget" (Why do I have to explain? Stupid f#####g sense of chivalry! Jane deserves it; hence her killer deserves to be killed… properly. In an orderly fashion. So it makes sense)**_

"_**Wait. I… I have something for you. Wait, I have something for you. Something. Look by the decanter…"**_

All I see is a picture. The picture of a battered old book from the previous century. The type of book ladies used to write their inner thoughts. A diary.

The man is bonkers. I raise my stake. Herrick is strong, I am stronger. William is barely one hundred years old. He cannot resist to the vicious arm twist I hold him in. I look at the silly peace offering .. and it strikes me.

I know that book and Herrick now knows I know.

After the … deed, Hettie has proceeded to set the house, my house… 'our' house on fire. While she was looking in our bedroom for whatever jewellery which might have been (sorry, Hettie. The last valuable of the mere trinkets I have begged Jane to accept had been sold), Herrick was in charge of the ground floor. He must have found the book and not inform his sire.

Herrick plays the long game, it would seem. And he is bartering the book. I want that book. I want it so bad it is raw. I can live as long I have no memory. Give me this book. Give me my life, my memories back. It is rough and it is going to be rougher. I want the book and I do not care about Herrick.

He promises to avoid London. He will give me back my bets.

The bastard! I knew he had cheated. The sums did not add up. I am almost 450years old and I am still poor at compute. Centuries have applied a thick layer of educated varnish; deep inside I am still the street urchin who could not write or read his name.

I want the diary. If I kill him, the diary is as good as lost. I have no choice. Either I let him go and live his miserable life of a rat; either I can say goodbye to something which means my own life has some value.

I know where to find him; I can put a bounty on his head. Some dogs have been trained; I can unleash them and put them in his scent. He knows that.

Where is the bloody book?

I must give my word. Word of honour, Word of a gentleman. Word of an Old One.

Do I have a choice?

Under a floorboard. In an attic. Above a whorehouse. My Jane's book. My pure Jane. Her book above a… Herrick should be flayed alive. He is already running down the stairs to the safety of the street.

I run down the same stairs in the opposite direction. I reach the house. The madam says her protégées are asleep. Good. I would hate to kill the poor girls. The painted old doxy will no more steal their earnings. I do not even stop to wipe my lips.

I want the book. So many years ago, I had not wiped my face from the blood of all my victims. It had not prevented me to find my Jane. I lift the board, I take the book out. I look at the first page. I flick through the book. I know the writing; I still can smell some old lavender. It is her book. I t was her book and now the book is mine.

…

I have reached Cardiff. I was supposed to discuss with Cutler my plans for his future. I do not know what to do. It is like a new cycle was brewing. Something fresh. Something waiting in the shadows. Something starting. Something something something.

I have read the book. I would cry if I could. I can't. I want to cry. But I can't. Who would believe me? Sharks don't cry. I am a top predator. I have killed so many people. I have been so many people.

I am a predator who grieves for his victim. It hurts so much I can't breathe. I would not breathe. If I could breathe. It hurts. Everything hurts.

I just want to grieve. Alone.

I can't. The boys have found a new dog. For the fights. I smile. I pretend to be interested. I feel hollow. I function. Like an automaton.

She was nice. She gave me her youth. She believed in me. She gave me life; her life. She writes about life, about hope. Is there life for me still? I am dead. I am more than dead. As for hope, how can there be hope for me?

She is dead. She has been dead for sixty five years.

Life… life has no hope for me.

…

1990

"Do not touch that book, Pearl. Hal does not want anybody to touch it"

"It is too late. I have started reading it. It is quite sad… yet so..."

"It belongs to Hal, Pearl. He will tell us, when he is ready."

"He will not know when he is with the dominoes"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two

A chapter where Time stands still.

Like the water on a lake, so still yet full of undercurrents. Something is bound to happen. Like in a train, the scenery starts changing. Less fields, more houses. The train's speed has not changed but something feels different. And it strikes; the sky turns grey, the sun is dimmer and the smell is … unwholesome. A few seconds ago, life was good, natural. Now you are in Hell. They call it industrialisation. Civilisation.

I say many have lost their souls in this new world. Some civilized men behave like they were cavemen!

I had to make a choice; I was to make a choice. I knew what I was going to lose. What would my gain be? If ever there was something to win… which I doubted. Which I doubt.

As we were, we were both damned by our reciprocal conditions; each of said conditions irrelevant of our own inner better feelings.

The situation was getting more and more tense. Something had got to give; something would snap…

…

May … 12th and the following days? Or should I write May 11th after…

Dear Diary,

I can't believe it. You cannot believe it and nobody will ever believe it. Dear Uncle Septimus would lock me away and throw the key as for Aunt Mattie; she would be preparing one of her soothing herbal teas. Nobody will believe me but it is true and it has happened.

After… after Colonel Yorke… I mean… Is he a colonel? For real? He looks the part and there is something in his attitude which vouches for it. This man was once a soldier and is used to be obeyed. The question is when? I mean when was he a soldier? For real.

Another question is: am I supposed to obey him? To this question: the answer is no. He is not my employer. Just a chance meeting. He has killed Sir M; now we are both running from … From whom?

I have nothing to fear. I am innocent from the onslaught on poor Lady H's house. He is running and he has contrived to get me running with him. The injustice of it!

Mr Yorke has decided he was not going to kill me. He was not sure. Initially. But he says he has made up his mind. I will do.

I will do? I will do what? I will do what must be done and I will not 'do' at his bidding!

When he decided to take me back to the house because he would be damned to be seen with me! Because I was hell-bent to carry on exposing myself to the neighbourhood?

As you know, we were both outside Sir Marmaduke's house. Standing on Sir Marmaduke's lawn. Mercifully the gardeners had left. It saved their lives.

The man who was holding me was… I am not really sure how to call his… kind? Well, he was looking like you and me. Not like me. Or you. Except you are a book. You, my imaginary reader,

He was looking totally human except I knew better. I had witnessed earlier on how he could … do things … to people and people's necks. He and his friends had fallen like… like locusts on an innocent field. One of the accursed flying creatures had left. Never to be seen again hopefully. But this man, the man in command had stayed on and found me. And I was all too conscious he was holding me while I was exposing most improperly my legs and my … shame.

At least I had my stripped cotton blouse on and a smart if demure black knotted handkerchief around the neck. And I had my best boots on! Though the lower parts of my corset were showing, a petticoat was covering … what is joining the legs to the abd… the upper body. As for my legs, he could only see but a few inches of my white … my white stockings with pink stripes. I had to protect my virtue! The long unmentionables and the absence of display matching my stern mien. Nothing could be misconstrued. Nothing amiss. Except for my skirt and my crinoline all ripped off and me standing in his arms. A decent, well-mannered young lady. Not a woman of loose morals.

I tried to regain my composure and push him away from me. It was disgraceful. Bad enough for me to be seen in my … underwear. Really, he should have known better. And known better than lick my cheek. This was uncalled for and unjustified.

I can appreciate that a man ghoul can be attracted to people's necks in a non- offensive way … still…Still it is offensive to kill people and drink their blood.

But lick an innocent maid. Like she was some… Italian sherbet offered to … by the seaside!

I know it is. Offensive, I mean. Offensive for any human to have parts of your neck bitten, chewed, swallowed, missing, eaten and drunk at. But as offensive at it is, it is a lot less offensive than having your neck licked at by a man, ghoul or no ghoul. I was starting to wonder if he had not be turned into a statue as he was … doing this repulsive thing with his … tongue … on my cheek and now my neck when he reluctantly let me go.

Dear reader, I ran for dear life. I never ever ran so quickly in my life. I think I ran faster than Miss Sophia's mare. For the first time of my life, I discovered it was easy to run when one is not encumbered by a stately crinoline. I was free, my legs were free. It was …exhilarating. I have never; I had never felt so free. The wind was passing between my legs. It was weird. Nice and so naughty. Liberated.

Silly me. I was not free, nor liberated. I was thinking I was free when a sharp pull brought me back to my senses. My freedom must have lasted just a few seconds.

Ladies apparently do not run as fast as gentlemen even when their … even when they lose the appropriate sense of modesty befitting any female. Even more so any female in need of employment.

In need of employment as I was quite certain that Sir Marmaduke was now dead as in proper dead. As for Lady H, I feared the worse for her. If she had been alive, her voice was quite recognizable, quite high pitched. I had not heard her calling for help.

The man ghoul was holding my arm and was making him clear that I was not supposed to run in that wanton fashion. I lowered my head in shame. To be reminded by a man ghoul that I was totally lost to my senses was the nadir of that horrible day. The creature led me to the main door.

The front door. The door for guests not for servants. Like me. It was quite odd to enter the house by this entrance. It was odder when I faced what a household meets vampires on a feeding spree.

There was blood all over. I mean it all over. And strewn bodies. Burton was dead, Sir Marmaduke was dead. The creature was looking at me, waiting for I suppose a shriek, a shout. A display of female emotions, any emotion.

I am sorry; I do not do tears or shrieks. I am a cold hearted being. To have found dear Papa's brains scattered about when he had blown his head has been enough experience to learn that tears or yells do not change facts. Dear papa was dead because he had taken to merge his money with his bank and his customers 'earnings with his purse. We were facing ruin!

As for his death, I am the one who is left destitute and he is the one who is pitied.

No tears from me, Mister Ghoul. Colonel Ghoul if the red jacket lying on the centre table was to be believed.

I will never know why these monsters turned at our door steps. Why they came in, under what pretence. Mystery.

- _**"What shall I do with you?"**_

- _**"I was hoping you could write a reference. That I am for nothing in the death of my late employer…"**_

That was when he laughed. When he dared to laugh and when I slapped him. I was way too shocked to be worried about consequences. Retribution. What retribution? My employer was dead; the silence of the house did not bode well – at all- for the rest of the humans who had worked, toiled and been ordered about.

Not only I slapped him but proceeded to go upstairs to my room to pack whatever belongings, books and what-not's I could call mine. I would never be able to be paid now, wasn't it?

- _**"I have been known to order people crucified for less".**_

"_**And slayed probably. Or impaled? What else? You kill people. Big deal. The Corsican Ogre did kill… was responsible for the killing of thousands of soldiers. One can't but die once. For all your grand airs, you are nothing more than a typical man. All show and no bottom"**_

- _**"I could recruit you. I should recruit you. As a rule, I never recruit females"**_

He would have killed me on the spot but for the large marble top table standing between us.

It would not hurt. Not hurt a lot. It was going to hurt like Hell but he would be there at my side when I was going to wake up? He was not going to let me down.

…

Nobody was going to let her down because nobody was going to do anything to her. Anything about her. Thank you; she knew how to take care of herself very well. 'Dear Papa' had taught her that. Never rely on anybody. The only human being she could rely on was herself. Herself against the big bad world.

It seemed this little Miss was ready to accept my existence in her world as long as I refrained from tasting again this delicious skin. I was sated. Why did I carry on this discussion eluded me. Eludes me still now.

What was not eluding was the fact that the owner of the above mentioned pair of ankles and slim waist had a riot of ringlets of an unfashionable mousey brown and a charming nose. Plus a pair of blue eyes, stormy blue eyes and a smile I knew would be impish. If I could put my hands on said owner.

Any vampire can recruit. Since my own…. I had recruited selectively a few. Men. Females were… are to be tasted, cherished. Sampled and thrown away. Either they hurt you or you hurt them. Or they hurt you because you grieve them. My alter ego had no problem with the weak vessel; as for me I avoided said supposedly weaker sex. Because unlike my reflection, my absent reflection I was the one who was paying for the consequences for the mistakes. His and mine errors.

I could have cornered her in the torture room when the late Miss Anna … sorry Isabella had masterfully killed Mozart. The problem was that I had had to kill to atone for her crime against Music. Another problem was that her body was well in evidence as her mother's and the maid's who was serving tea.

While I was gently remonstrating the odious child, her tune-deaf mother and the servant; the noise had brought the nosy valet. Fergus took care of the interfering head servant. He also took care of the cook and the scullery maid while I signified to Sir Archduke… Marmaduke that his household was very poorly maintained. Really not quite the thing. And I would know!

After that, things got … confused. It always gets confused. It is like a red veil falls on me. Falls between me and my conscience. I am just hunger, blood lust. I am hungry. Always hungry and so thirsty. Oh so thirsty. It is a very curious thirst. More I drink and I do drink. A lot. More I need to drink, the thirstier I get. I could drink for England and be dehydrated. I have to drink. Just drink.

Fergus is like me, a good hearty companion. My faithful aide de camp. In theory because he is just a Bateman. We are not so fussy with titles, us the night people. I found the youngest of Sir What's his name hidden under an armoire. I pulled her out. Good lass. Unlike her sister, the child tried to knock me with her doll. I was going to be – for once – true to my words. I was not going to drink her. Fergus would. Once a gentleman, always a gentleman.

I locked the brat in a cellar and proceeded upstairs. Fergus was keeping himself busy; as for me I made sure any human was properly reminded of his inferior position. Subordinate. On the food chain scale, quite below me.

I was still thirsty. As I climbed the stairs, I noticed some strange black fur growing on my shirt. The silly owner had a fake moustache! Proud as peacock, I stood in front of a monumental mirror which was showing naturally nothing.

Isn't it weird? I leave something, anything in front of a mirror and not touch it. It shows. I seize it. It is gone. I was in a playful mood; I placed the hairy implement on my face. Why a fake moustache? Did His … Did Sir Thingy have a thing with facial hair? Did Lady Thingamuch have a... an obsession? Humans can be quite… weird, you know…

Fergus had properly set a meal for me. A young plump and juicy bird of the female variety. Since the French Revolution, it is hard to keep a good servant. A good servant must be rewarded. I sent him to visit the cellar and I proceeded with my lunch.

The maid was to be such a disappointment. Just noise and terror. Her blood was stale… So stale I lost any lingering appetite. Put me off food, really.

I removed the offending hair piece. My shirt, my soaked shirt must have been left in some room down below. What floor was that? Really an ostentatious house… So many servants, so many rooms…

A Shirt, I needed a shirt. Fergus knows his job. There were no humans, no pulses. No hearts, all too ready to share with me the cherished erythematous liquid treasure. I should say not exactly ready or happy to share. Tell me about a bottle happy to be emptied… I was looking for a shirt, a clean shirt and probably a clean pair of trousers when I heard a noise. It was coming from a room; a room I had to inspect. A room for some superior servant as it boasted of a bookshelf and the paraphernalia of millinery was suggesting a female with refined taste.

Typical of my recent run of bad luck. Losing bets on dogs can happen; losing bets on humans is rare but losing bets on humans and on dogs! I can accept humans killing once and a while dogs, I know dogs kill humans more than once. But a human able to kill a werewolf while said werewolf is ripping the human's head is unheard off. I paid my dues as a gentleman. None the less I was fuming. The humans'meal was deserved!

By now, somewhere in this dismal house, a corpse was all that was left of an enticing maid, nurse, dresser… I was all too willing to do the dishonourable thing and there was nobody left to dishonour. Lady Luck…Cruel Lady….

The window was wide open. On the floor, a red dress or skirt and a white petticoat. A young lady's straw bonnet and an umbrella to protect a delicate skin from the injuries of the sun. Quite sad… Life was sad and I was a sad man with a sad secret… I needed fresh air to avoid a fit of doldrums.

I certainly avoided doldrums because as soon as my head was outside, I smelled her scent. Her human scent. For the pulse, I had already heard it beating furiously fast. Deliciously fast. For her scent, she smelled of … lavender and … forget me not's. I would never forget her.

How could I forget her? It is not every day a vampire is welcomed by such a charming sight. As why as she had felt obliged to remove her dress to climb outside the window, I could not figure out. Females surely can sit with crinolines. In my young days, they could dance a Volta with their farthingale on.

To try and kiss them with that wide lace ruff around their neck required some quick thinking. Life for a vampire was not easy; life for an amorous vampire was far less easy. To get to your prey, you had to remove layer after layer: gown, then a kirtle. Her parlet then her bum roll, the corset above said famous farthingale. A flurry of petticoats and finally her chemise, camisole and at long last her sheath. You were thirsty from sheer expectation!

Another cumbersome invention was the grand pannier. Apologies. Other cumbersome inventions were the grand panniers. Plural. No wonder you ended up babbling. Try and leap to an inviting neck when said misbegotten panniers get in the way. Why women must but worship the most hideous fashions… Like the Venetian Signorinas on platforms breaking their ankles. On the plus side, your prey was ready to be picked up as she was fallen on the floor. Nowadays, crinolines. Or in my case, a lady without crinoline. All the better.

My prey, my adorable prey had a trim pair of ankles, good looking calves. A nice wait and the shade of iris I always fall for. Plus she was already half undressed for the kill.

I tried everything to get her back, close to me, my hungry hands and hungrier fangs.

The damsel might have been in distress; the damsel was happy to stay in the grapevine, like some woodland nymph. I reminded her of her state of missing garments. She would not oblige. She even dared to call me drunk. I had to do something.

Fergus turned in. Fergus was not needed. Fergus was sent away. I was not to share my own hunt. I did not need a compliant servant. I wanted a willing victim.

If Mahomet does not go to the mountain, the crinoline goes to the maid. Brought to you, courtesy of well-mannered, poised me. Come here, juicy bird. Come here, little lady. I like your legs; we do not want the gardener to have a peak at them, do we? Come here and if you do not come, I will come and get you.

All right, I got to her. Grasped her left hand. The little darling tried to move away. Dear, I have been climbing trees before your great grandfather was born. In an instant I was standing behind her, letting her hand down, yet securing her waist and getting a direct view on that enticing neck when Nature betrayed me. Us.

Thus Jack and Jill went tumbling down the hill or the wisteria. Trying to avoid a broken neck by holding to whatever was offering help. A petticoat comes to mind. After that, I just remember an adorable pout, a skin soft and creamy and …

…

He wanted to kill me; but for some reason did not want me to find asylum in the music room. He leaped over the table, but I was quick and hid behind the atlantes which were supporting the balcony overlooking the hall entrance.

We danced around the statues. The absence of skirt making the monster's victory not so certain. For once or rather again, it was clear that not wearing my dress was preventing the ghoul to get hold of me. I had less volume!

If only I could grab a weapon, any weapon… An umbrella. Yes an umbrella. My poor Lady H would forgive me. I had to protect the household or what was left of it. I would never submit to the odious tyranny of these disgusting fangs… I would never become one of his hellish cronies. Jane Eyre was not going to be eaten. Jane Eyre was not going to become a … a malia…a lamia.

Why, dear God, did he have to look at me with these soulful eyes and then switch to those soulless dark orbs?

We turned around the statue; I darted for the umbrella box. He ran after me. I jumped over Burton and pushed the corpse's leg with my foot. He fell. I grabbed the umbrella, he grabbed my ankle. I turned around at the risk of having my stays breaking their bones and fell also on the floor, the monster above me. The marble was cold. Like a tomb. The monster was ready to leap on my neck when he realized something pointy was strategically placed in the way. Something lost in a mist of white foamy Chantilly lace. Charming yet pointy none the less.

Not a stake. Sir Archibald and Lady H lived in a benighted world where servants kept to themselves, young ladies feared sun rays and dead men stayed dead. To protect their progeny's fair skin, umbrellas were essential. Too bad if the end of said delicious implement ended up by a very slim elegantly carved pointy piece of wood.

…

Weighing the odds of the umbrella maker to have used only wood or used a metallic iron to reinforce the woods. In which case: was it still technically a stake? I had to calculate the odds of said altered stake to be a stake or not. To be or not to be. In which case should I try to or not? Nibble or not nibble … To nip or not to nip.

The bard had answered the question: much ado about nothing.

…

He leapt and remembered that poetic license is allowed to poets. Only to poets. The sticky end of the umbrella entered his chest and it hurt. A lot. Like Hell. He froze and fell backward as a desperate hand was pushing away to save her life, saving his life at the same time. The bard would have enjoyed the irony.

The wound was not deep but it was painful and he was bleeding. It must have avoided the heart and falling backward had avoided the phenomenon of combustion. Beware of Greeks and beware of maidens showing their ankles… The blood loss was making him delirious and he was already drunk.

_**- "Oh my God, what have you done? Stupid… stupid man. How am I to stop that bleed".**_

God, she was now worried about his health.

- _**"You could start pressing some dressings. You ladies are quite going at pressing gauzes, dressings and all sorts of bandages on us poor soldiers. Miss Nightingale was all for cleaning up wounds and being in general a fucking nuisance!"**_

"_**A gentleman never swears in the presence of a lady. I suppose this rule does not apply to ghouls. Men ghouls… I pity your ladies… Ladies ghouls?"**_

Ghouls or no ghouls, his manners were most appalling.

- _**"Vampires. Vampires, not ghouls. Thank you. Ghouls have decrepit rotting corpses. They cannot talk because their throat is … soupy. They recruit and the result will look like them. Vampires are vastly superior to ghouls". **_

Painfully, he tried to sit upright far from the umbrella the young madam had kept in her hand.

This was complacency for you. Complacency. Feeling smug and superior. Mr Snow would say he was not ready… yet, even if Jacob and Wyndham vouched for him. Stupid bets, stupid Sir … Sir whose stupid daughter could not even play a single decent piano note and stupid, stupid girl whose skin was so, so sweet and whose charms hid the venom of a … of a …

…

Later much later, as he realized his back was aching like he had been beaten by some harsh board, he would learn that she had dragged his body up to the library. Propelled a few pillows under his head. Run upstairs to her mistress… Sorry her employer. She was not a servant. She was a hired governess. She had no mistress but herself.

Her employer's boudoir to snatch some smelling salts and a bottle of fine whisky from the billiard room to rush back to the room where he was coming in and out of consciousness. He had been very lucky. If she had not pushed him back, the stake was going to enter properly his chest and as properly dispatch him to a very warm place he did not contemplate to visit. Yet.

What brought him back was a vile smell of rotten …Rotten eggs. He knew that smell. London or Gdansk? What… what? What was he doing here? He has a blinding headache but he was not drunk. No more drunk and he was in a house he knew nothing about. The evening had come and … his chest was hurting. His shirt, his regimentals, all was gone but his trousers and the braces. His chest was wrapped in a tight bandage. Had the wound…? The lance wound sustained at Orsha… was it open again? He was as weak as a baby.

His fangs appeared on command. He was alive, still alive. A live vampire who had almost become a very proper dead vampire. He must have lost quite some blood as he was feeling still quite dizzy and a pulse was walking toward him. He needed blood to recover quickly and this pulse was going to give him the life he needed. The life he wanted. The life his body was not prepared, yet, to kill. His body, his young buffed body was not ready to stand up. As for leaping, he might as well wish to ride over a fence. The bruising rider was as weak as an infant.

The pulse was standing in front of the door. Like steadying something. The door opened and the human came in. Backward. The human staker.

"_**I am sorry. I apologize for the lack of refreshments. I cannot find where the key for the tea caddy box is hidden. We shall have to make do with the servants' fare. My employers may be dead but we shall not use the Blue Worchester. As for the sandwiches, the absence of Cook made it somehow difficult to obtain satisfactory ones. You will have to forgive the asymmetry of the spread."**_

"_**You tried to kill me because I wanted to feed from you. … And … you are presenting a tray laden for supper? You are supposed to be the main course!"**_

"_**Sugar? Cream?"**_

The pair of ankles was not to be seen. How long had his loss of conscience lasted? Long enough for her to slip on a few… way too many petticoats to prevent the dress to cling to her body. A few minutes ago, he had wanted to get her dressed. Now he wanted to undress her all the more.

"_**Why did you stay?"**_

"_**I have to explain to the police… Stop. I have the umbrella! As I was saying, tomorrow when the daily washerwomen come, I shall call for the constabulary and…"**_

"… _**and be arrested. Because if you believe I am going to stay around, you are a fool. Are you a fool? No cream, thank you"**_

She would be arrested and hanged. Or left to wilt away in some lunatic asylum… Or she could come. With him. Escape. With him. Who would believe her? Nobody.

Her unmaidenly behaviour, her brazen disregard for social conventions… Her lack of respect for her betters, her elders… Her immodest flaunting of … parts which are not to be shown to, which are to be shown only to … as for her courage, her quick thinking. The quality of her sharp reasoning … all of that made her an ideal recruit.

He had always considered women as unfit. Until he had met her. She was perfect. Maybe with the right training… she would be an heir? Mr Snow had big projects for him.

…

He was sure this unknown person (a vampire most probably) would open wide his arms to welcome Lord Harry's protégée.

Mr Snow would not open his arms to Miss Jane Smith.

Miss Smith curtseyed. Jane Smith was now going to deprive the man ghoul … sorry the vampire colonel of her presence. Jane had to pack her bag and leave. The night was falling, but with the full moon, she would be able to walk and put as much distance as can be between her and the manor.

"_**So you are flying from my fangs to die from a dog's fangs"**_

"_**Why would a dog attack me? I am not going to look for shelter in a farm. We have no rabid dogs here! We have enough with you… you Mr Fang Person!"**_

"_**Jane, there are big bad people waiting for a little governess outside. It is a full moon, woman. Normally, they stay put in the woods. If they get hold of my scent…"**_

The young maid did not understand. At all. If she had had money to bet… Which she did not have. Because she had no money. Because Uncle Septimus reproved of betting. She would have bet the vampire was sincerely worried. For her. About her safety.

She would stop walking at one point and curl up under a tree… or … sleep in a barn. She would avoid the gypsies and …

"_**End up disembowelled by a werewolf!"**_

"_**Please, stop casting aspersions on my intelligence. I have stopped believing in fairy tales. Werewolves? Pfff, what next ghosts?"**_

"_**Turn your head. I think the daughter … the late eldest daughter of your so very late employers is standing behind you"**_

This was not funny. It was her. Her; not him. Her, who had laid the wide silk piano cloth over poor Sophia, Sophia who may have not been endowed by a good musical ear… Sophia who sincerely loved music. A lot more than her, Jane would ever love.

It was poor taste and gross insensitivity to make fun at the poor dead. It was…

It was the teapot. The teapot floating into thin air. Lady H's teapot. The one which had been used for her ladyship tea when 'it' had started. The one which was standing on the tea table, near the maid's body. And it was floating in front of her. With no hand or body attached to said hand to hold it.

"_**She says …"**_

"_**She… she has… she had a name. She is called… she was called Sophia. She was 14… How could you… how can you?"**_

"_**You must have some unfinished business. No, Jane, I am not talking to you. I am talking to the ghost. Sophia's ghost"**_

She must be losing her mind. She had lost her mind. Or she was dead. Or a prey to a serious nightmare. Sorry, Aunt Mattie, she would stop eating ginger cake. Ginger was not for her.

The teapot carried on floating. And ended up on the chimney.

"_**Jesus, she was not musical alive. As a spirit, she manages to cry just as disharmoniously as she was playing the piano"**_

"_**How can you be so cruel! What can we do for her?"**_

"_**Must be something she wanted to do when she was alive"**_

Jane was happy to forgive all the misdemeanours. It was making no difference from what the vampire could tell her. The door… the door? Was not materializing.

"_**You should know. You are her governess"**_

"_**My remit is with live young charges. Not ghostly ones. Sorry. So sorry, Isabella. Let me see. Music? We could play together? Or… Now what! Ghosts, werewolves… what sort of monsters are you going to conjure?"**_

The ghost had spoken. Her request was reasonable, logical. Yet unfeasible with Jane around.

"_**Now what? What did she ask? Tell me? What sort of unreasonable request or unfinished business a girl of fourteen summers can make?"**_

"_**Stay there. Wait for me and do not leave the room. Or I'll get you."**_

That was the plan. The plan matching with a body not weakened by some severe blood loss. Loss coming from a staking by a bloody ridiculous umbrella.

Why did he feel compelled to please the ghost? Why did he feel responsible for the ghost child well-being?

The headache was coming back. He sighed and gave up. Jane would have to help him go to the cellar. She was not to get inside. Was it clear? Not to get inside. He grabbed the Paisley shawl which was adorning a hideous armchair and limped with his shattered dignity to the cellar.

Jane did not try to follow him. Something was telling her not to. A few instants later, she saw him coming back carrying a form wrapped with the shawl. A small form.

She said nothing. She was past caring, past crying. Each step was painful, heavy. The monster was carrying… the form and she was propping up the monster. Each step was merciless and cruel as the red stain on the shawl grew larger and larger. The vampire sent her off the music room.

She guessed he was laying side by side the two sisters. United in death as they had been in life.

The door opened. The monster was sombre.

"_**Sophia was terrified in the cellar. She followed me and … and both crossed their door together. Isabella says she is sorry about some brown silk?"**_

This was to be the lowest point of a most horrible day. The human's shoulders started to shake and rivers of tears would have been allowed to run free.

"_**I will not cry. I will not. I will not give you this proof of our humanity. You do not deserve it. "**_

She turned away and started to run away. Away from him. Away from the bestial debauchery of murder. She was heading back to her room. Her sanctum. Back to a world where governesses wrote on a little diary their dreams, a world where the worst which could happen was to have to listen to tone-deaf piano lessons.

She would have if the monster had not intercepted her flight like a hawk intercepts a swallow. She resisted, fighting him off while keeping her head down. Fighting, struggling, using her fists against his chest. Until she surrendered and admitted defeat. Until he managed to calm her down by saying nothing. By just allowing her to express her rage and anger by battering her chest with her fists. Until she was calm down and accepted to rest her head against his silent torso.

The hawk had caught the swallow by his talons; the lamb had been caught by the wolf. The monster had captured his prey. And would not hurt her.


End file.
